Sweet Potatoes, this is how my marriage ended. But before you start
reading this post, I want to appeal to you to do me a favor: SHARE THIS POST.
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tried to make it as short as possible, but it’s still long because story
full ground. Read on. Then share. Thank you.
I will write this story keeping in mind that for some people, this
may be the first thing they are reading from me, so they may not be
familiar with the people I’m talking about. Let’s start from the
beginning.
I will refer to the person I used to be married to as The Boy. The
Boy and I got married in 2011, and we had a baby (Ada Verastic) in 2015.
He’s Yoruba. I’m Igbo. Maryland, USA is the setting for all this
nonsense.
In 2016, right before Ada Verastic turned one, The Boy’s mother moved
from Nigeria to America to live with us. It was not an idea I was
thrilled about, but I came around to being okay with it. I was planning
on leaving my job after having the baby (to work more on the blog), and
The Boy said his mom would be a good addition, that she could care for
the baby while I worked. I told The Boy that she could stay as long as I
was not expected to change my life because she was now living with me.
He agreed, said he was nervous too about her coming.
Side note: The Boy was not raised by his mother. She
and The Boy’s father had him while they were very young. The Boy’s
father never married her. He moved on, married a woman, and had three
sons with her. The Boy’s mother moved on, but apparently, only
physically. She had more children, each one with a different man. None
of these men married her either. When The Boy was 7 months old, she
abandoned him with his paternal grandfather and continued bearing
children for any man who was brave enough to enter. So, the boy was in
his twenties when his father introduced him to his mother.
She moved into my home in October 2016. Less than two weeks later,
The Boy lost his job. According to him, he did nothing. They just fired
him. I believed him because he was my husband, and he had not given me
any reason to doubt him. Now, remember, I did not have a regular job at
this time. All I had was income from my blog, which was inconsistent.
Sometimes, it was a lot, and other times, it was barely there.
For six months, the boy did not have a job. We survived on the
chicken change from unemployment benefits and from my savings. I was
(still am) excellent at saving, so although I was not officially
working, I had money. Every month, I’d transfer the needed funds for the
month’s bills.
In April of 2017, I went back to work. It was a position that fell
into my lap. I did not apply for the job, and I was hired based on my
writing skills on the blog. The position was a three-month contract
position for a Communications Specialist. The contract was extended
once, but I eventually lost the job in August of the same year. The Boy
also started a new six-figure job in April, after I started mine.
Before he got the job, however, The Boy’s mother – shall we call her
The Witch? – told him that she saw a vision from God, that God told her
that his father was responsible for his job loss, that his father was
mad that he brought her to America. Several times, The Boy and I had
arguments over this issue. The so-called vision made no sense to me. I
asked him, why would your father “attack” you now? He’s the one who sent
money to your grandpa to take care of you. And he’s the one who filed
for you to be in America. And you have been here all these years. Why
would he do this now? And if truly he attacked you, how come you got
another job? Has the attack worn off? I was told that I did not
understand, that I grew up rich, that I was asking too many questions
and speaking too much English, that I did not understand how Yoruba
people act.
During his six-month unemployment period, his business partner called
a meeting in which he basically kicked The Boy out of the company. The
Boy told me that it was because his business partner (let’s call him
Ade) had discovered that The Boy was building a house in Nigeria, in his
mother’s village, Ogere, and the business partner was jealous. It made
no sense to me, especially because this business partner was also his
closest friend who had otherwise been extremely supportive. Again, I
believed him, and against my better judgment, I silenced all the voices
in my head that were speaking too much English.
About two years prior to this, Ade and his wife had unfortunately
suffered a miscarriage. So, when Ade kicked The Boy out of the business,
The Witch said she saw a vision from God, that God had told her that
Ade’s wife would never conceive, that there was something in her belly
that tied her womb up. The Boy rejoiced because he believed that this
was a punishment from God to Ade. I prayed for Ade and his wife. I did
not like him anymore because he was allegedly jealous of my husband for
the house he was building in the village, but as a mom, I prayed that
Ade and his wife would have children.
Side note about this house in the village: I saw it
when I went to Nigeria in 2016. It was located in the middle of a swamp.
There was no road to get to it, and we had to drive on heavy mud to get
to it. It was so bad that when we got there, I refused to come down
from the car in my shoes. I did not want to ruin my shoes in that mud.
Someone else had to take their shoes off for me to wear. Sure, you may
call me an Ajebota. I have learned to not be sorry for being an Ajebota.
Yes, I am. The house was a complete mess. It was not going according to
the blueprint, but I did not care too much because (1) It was located in the village of Ogere, and I knew I’d never live there, and (2) I was never in support of building this house. I wanted a house where I lived in Maryland.
While The Witch lived with me, she always saw visions for me. Like
when she said I should not wear anything red for a certain amount of
time. Or when she said I should ALWAYS obey my husband, no matter what.
Or when even before she lived with me, she said she knew the gender of
the baby we were having. We did not know Ada Verastic’s gender until she
was born, but The Witch said she knew it. When asked what the gender
was then, she refused to say. After she was told it was a girl, she said
she knew it, that God showed her the color pink in a dream. The day she
moved into my home, she looked out the window of her bedroom and said
that she recognized the tree, that God had shown her that tree in a
vision.
The Boy and The Witch got into serious arguments all the time, and I
was left being a verbal referee. I figured they were clashing because
she did not raise The Boy, and this was them – two adults – getting to
know each other. Several times, The Boy threatened to bundle her back to
Nigeria. I begged him not to. Once, I even got on my knees to beg. You cannot throw your mother out, I begged. Be patient with her, I pleaded. Be mindful of how you speak to her, I warned.
Things were changing between The Boy and I. Our sex life was almost
non-existent. At first, it happened because of hormones from being
pregnant and bearing a child, but soon, it became more. No matter what
The Boy did, I could not get my body to react. My doctor said it was
childbirth, that I should give it some time. I had absolutely no desire
to have sex with The Boy.
It did not matter how he touched me or where he stuck his tongue, I
was as dry as a desert. Lubricants became our norm. Still, the sex was
passionless, uncomfortable, and sometimes painful. He complained,
understandably. I also stopped initiating sex. How could I initiate that
which I did not want? To appease him, I’d try to trick myself into
being aroused. I’d watch porn to get me wet, then I’d run off to him to
quickly “get it done” before the feeling disappeared, but there was no
tricking my mind. My mind knew what I was doing, and it always snitched
to my body, so by the time I’d get to The Boy, I was already back to
square one: fucking dry. And then I’d feel guilty for watching porn. It
was a continuous cycle.
In my house, The Witch saw many more visions. She told him that he’d
be a king. Of where? I don’t know. He believed it so much that he said
he’d be the biggest king in Nigeria, that he’d be so big that when
presidents of other nations came into Nigeria, they’d come to pay him a
visit before visiting the president of Nigeria, and that his throne
would have a branch office in Aso Rock. Together, they’d obsessively
watch videos of the Ooni of Ife, scrutinizing his looks. The Boy would
tell his mother what kind of outfit he wanted at his own coronation, and
she’d hail him, call him Kabiyesi. On his birthday in October 2017, I
told the boy to kneel so I could pray for him. He refused to kneel, said
that kings don’t kneel for people. I cannot make this up.
Long ago, I was in nursing school. I hated nursing school, but I
quite enjoyed the clinical part of Psychiatric Nursing. We got to sit
with the patients, listen to their delusional stories, and write about
them (nurse’s notes). That was my favorite part. When that patient told
me that she saw and spoke to the devil, I understood that she had a
mental illness. Or I hoped it was indeed a mental illness anyway. But
sitting in my own home, listening to The Boy and The Witch display their
active delusions of grandeur, it was not funny or entertaining anymore.
I was worried. Worried for my life. Worried for my daughter. Worried
for my future.
The Boy told me to be excited that he’d soon go to Nigeria to claim
his chieftaincy title (different from the kingship), that I, too, would
be Chief Mrs. His-Last-Name. I was somewhere between amused and
disgusted. First of all, I did not even have his last name. Second of
all, I had never expressed any interest in being Chief Mrs. Anything.
And lastly, I feared for the diabolical implications of a chieftaincy
title. My fears were dismissed because again, I was an Ajebota who did
not know anything. Oh, and he said that I would be respected by my Sweet
Potatoes on IG once they knew I was a Chief Mrs, and I would wear a hat
with a feather in it. Me, Vera? Hat with feather?
In August of 2017, we went for a traditional wedding. When we came
home, we had an argument, and I don’t remember now how the argument
started or what it was even about. He was really angry. I insisted that
we talk about it, resolve it immediately, but he did not want to. I
wouldn’t let him leave the room, so he hit me. Of course, I moved then. I
screamed when he hit me – from the shock, not the pain. I barely slept
that night. I cried, slept, woke up to cry some more, slept again,
repeatedly. In the morning, I contemplated calling the police, but I did
not. That day, we had to go to a wedding (the white wedding of the
traditional wedding we attended the night before). It was the last thing
I wanted to do, but I had promised a friend that I would be there for
this wedding. So, I went. My mind was not with my body that night. I’ll
dedicate a separate post to this wedding. It will be titled, A Tale of Two Weddings (And One Dress).
The Boy never apologized for hitting me. But weeks later, when I
“recovered,” I brought the conversation up. I told the boy that if he
ever put his hands on me again, he would get a different response from
me. He said he hoped I never “made” him do it again.
In November 2017, the boy traveled to Nigeria. It was a “business”
trip. Against my advice, he had built an app. He got a credit card,
hired developers in India and max’d the card out. He said the trip was
successful, that “people” knew his name now. I did not and still do not
know who these people are.
When he returned from Nigeria, I cooked some vegetable (efo) soup and
some fried rice. I assumed he’d eat the efo because he never picked
rice over efo. To my surprise, he chose to eat the rice. I thought
nothing of it. I assumed that he was possibly fed up with eating efo in
Nigeria. But he was acting really strangely. He slept with the lights
on. He wore a long white gown that I had never seen to sleep. He was on
edge, irritable. We had an argument and he finally told me why he was
mad at me. It was because when I came to the airport with Ada Verastic
and The Witch to pick him up, he said I let The Witch push the cart with
his luggage on it. I asked him, who owns the cart and who owns the
mother? If you did not like her pushing the cart, why didn’t you stop
her?
Let me rewind back a little bit. While The Witch lived with me, the
only job I asked her to do was to take care of my baby. I never asked
her to do dishes or cook, or do laundry, or clean anything. She chose to
do those things herself, except the laundry. I did everyone’s laundry.
Apart from her puff puff, I never ate anything The Witch cooked in my
house because she could not cook worth a damn.
Before I went to her house in Nigeria, the boy forewarned me, told me
that his mother could not cook, but that I should manage the food. He
has told a lot of lies, but this was not one of them. I nearly threw up
in my mouth. My mom begged me to pretend to eat. I could not. I told
them I was full, that I had just eaten. It was a lie. I was starving. In
my home, I told The Witch that if she ever did not feel like eating
what I had in the fridge, she was welcome to cook anything. And she did.
She cooked egusi with meatballs seasoned for pasta. The stench of the
flavors mixed together was nauseating. She ate yam with peanut butter. I
could not care less. I only had one request: that the food not be fed
to my child. Her son, however, was free to eat whatever she cooked. He
didn’t.
She made side comments about The Boy only wanting to eat my food. She
questioned where I bought my clothes, said she wanted my type of
clothes. She asked what lotion I used, that my skin was too fresh. She
asked why I had so many clothes, shoes, and jewelry, and was I selling
them. Once, I pricked my finger on a piece of dry fish and it began to
bleed. She said, “Ah, Mommy Ada, see as your blood is smooth.” Funmie’s mom said I should have said, “Yes, it’s smooth, but it’s very bitter. In fact, you cannot taste it.” Funmie’s mom is savage.
Too many times, she expressed her awe of me. She could not believe I
ate corn flakes as a child. Or that I was born in Russia. Or that I had
never eaten certain mixtures, like meat and garri. Or that I had never
bought fish crumbs on the roadside in Nigeria. Or that I disliked the
smell of fish. Or that I did not eat the organs of meat (like the
kidneys, heart, eyes, etc). Or that my mom had a food menu for each
week. Or that my mother worked and had a car. Or that I refused to tie
iro and bubu (wrapper and blouse). She even made a comment about how my
daughter only loved her mother (me). Before nko?
After The Boy came back from Nigeria and we had that argument, I
refused to give in. I’m not a fighter. I tend to always end the fight
first because chaos is uncomfortable. This time, however, I refused to
yield. One day, another argument ensued and I asked him if he was still
interested in this marriage. He shouted no. I said, say no more. I went
into our bedroom, called my aunt, and said, “Aunty, my marriage is over.”
And because my mother did not raise a fool, I immediately packed up
all the documents that meant anything to me (passports, social security
cards, birth certificate, documents for my car, etc), and I took them
out of the house.
He found out about a week later. He confronted me in the living room.
I confirmed that I took them. He asked what was supposed to happen to
us now. I told him that I had given him everything I had to give him,
and that I was empty now. I told him I had worked for the marriage as
much as I could, and that now, I was ready to meet him wherever he
wanted to go. The Witch was in her room, and her door was open, so I
knew she could hear us. I told him that love was the only reason why we
were where we were. If I did not love him, The Witch would not be under
my roof. At most, I told him, she would be my mother’s help – if my
mother would have her. I ended my speech by telling him that he and his
mother were not on my level. Sometime in the future, he tried to get me
to recant what I said about them not being on my level, but I refused.
He patronized me, said I must have said it in anger. Nope. I told him I
said what I meant and I meant what I said, and I was standing by my
words.
By the way, before all this, I suspected that he and his mother were
discussing me, so I started recording their conversations. I don’t speak
Yoruba, so they spoke freely in front of me. I got so much dirt on
them. I’d send the conversations to my Yoruba friends, and they would
scream and interpret.
In one conversation, for example, The Witch told The Boy that I had
gotten too big for them, that they needed to clip my wings. In another
conversation, The Boy told his mother that he would kick me out of the
house if I did not leave, and The Witch supported, said yes, that is
what you must do. In another conversation, he spoke very disrespectfully
about his father, and The Witch said she would deal with The Boy’s
father. The boy agreed. I recorded them for weeks and did not react. If I
had said something, I’d have lost access to my data and receipts, so I
played their game, pretended not to know what they were saying, kept
them talking.
This story is a lot, so I’m jumping all around and writing things as I
remember them. That day The Boy hit me, The Witch did nothing. She said
nothing. The weeks The Boy and I were not talking, she said nothing and
did nothing. One day (after I took the documents), she called a meeting
to ask what the problem was. That entire conversation was recorded. I
played along with them, pretended to be having a meeting with them. The
Boy screamed, NO WOMAN WILL CONTROL ME IN MY HOUSE! Then The Witch asked
why I took the documents, if we were fighting. I responded, No, this is
war. But I did not tell them what I knew.
Thanks to the recordings, I knew she was traveling to Chicago to
visit The Boy’s aunt. They did not tell me and did not intend to tell
me. But that day, on December 19th, 2017 when the boy returned from work
and was ready to go drop her off at the airport, I asked her where she
was going. She said she was going “somewhere” for Christmas. I asked, “Won’t you take the rest of your things?”
I advised her to take her things because that day was going to be her
last time in my house. My blood was boiling, Sweet Potatoes. I smacked
my palm on the table and dared her to try me. I would finish her if she
returned. That day was the last day I set my eyes on her.
The Boy asked if I was asking his mother to leave. Iya mi? He asked.
Yes. He took her to the airport. On his way back, he stopped at a
friend’s house. Let’s call him John. Meanwhile, John had called him
several times in the past few weeks, trying to talk to him about our
situation. In one of the recordings I had, The Witch is telling him not
to go to John’s house. On this day, however, he goes to John’s house and
apologizes for not calling him back, says that he was sick. Little did
he know that John was one of my interpreters, that John already knew he
was lying, that John had already heard The Witch telling him not to
come. The Witch had even reigned curses on John and his family.
While he was at John’s house, I got a sudden urge to search The
Witch’s room. She had two pieces of luggage, both locked. I went into
the laundry room and brought the hammer. I broke the lock of the first
luggage. In it, I found his degrees. He had hidden them there after I
took my own documents. I also found a worn, dirty underwear that
belonged to The Witch. I did not understand why she’d save that there,
but I zipped the luggage back up and returned the hammer. I walked out
of the laundry room and felt in my spirit that I needed to open the
second luggage. So I went back, got the hammer, and broke the second
lock. It was full of clothes. I almost zipped the bag and walked away,
but I decided to move some clothes around. And that was when my heart
almost left my body.
Juju [Voodoo]. A calabash with feathers on it. Two bottles of black
liquid. Two bowls with unknown substances in them. I did not open to
see. I was freaking out!! I had never seen juju when it was not on a TV
screen. Yet, here it was, in my home, in 2017. I tried to take a picture
on my phone. My hands were so shaky; I took a video instead. In it, I’m
screaming blood of Jesus! I eventually took a picture. I called The
Boy’s father. He screamed on the phone, said “This woman wants to kill
my son!”
His father said he was on the way. Meanwhile, the boy came home with
John in tow. When he came home, the first thing he did was go into his
mother’s room to check on her stuff. Then he came back to the living
room where John tried unsuccessfully to talk to us both. I was livid. I
was shaking. Angry. Confused. I called The Boy a fool, amongst other
things. He looked shocked, I had never called him names. In all the
years we were married, I never called the boys names, never insulted
him, even when he said unkind things to me, but today, the gloves were
off, and I realized that it was impossible to speak to him any other
way.
When the boy heard me talking to his father on the phone, he said he
was leaving, that he was not going to be told what to do in his own
house. I called his father back, told him The Boy was leaving. He said I
should show him the luggage then. I ran into The Witch’s bedroom and
dragged the luggage out. I opened it in front of The Boy and John, told
him to see what his mother was doing. What I expected was for the boy to
jump back in shock, scream Blood of Jesus like me. Instead, the boy
defended it, tried to convince John that it was not juju. By the way,
John is a full-blown Yoruba man, so of course, he knew it was juju.
Sweet Potatoes, the shock of The Boy defending the juju was more than
the original shock of finding it.
John refused to look at the juju, lest he be blind. In his anger and
humiliation, The Boy pushed me hard. This time, I was ready for him. I
called 911, told them I wanted to report an assault. The boy dragged his
mother’s luggage – the one with the juju – and fled. Police came and
took my statement. Then they put out a warrant for his arrest. His
father came too, looking tired and hurt. This was his son.
The next day, I called the security company and changed the code on
the alarm before heading out to court to file a protective order. I knew
nothing of what this order was. The police had asked me the night
before if I was going to file one and I said yes. They told me where to
file, and I headed there the next day. I was with Ada Verastic; she was
just two months over two years old. She was bored and restless in court,
and I had to stand before the judge to explain why I was asking for
this protective order. It was granted temporarily. When I was walking
out of court, the security company called me, “Ma’am, there’s a disturbance at your house. Your alarm is going off. Should we dispatch police?” They asked. And I said, “Yes. I’m not home. There’s an intruder.”
Before I got home, two policemen were there already with the boy
standing outside. Ada Verastic had fallen asleep in the car. I told the
police that I had to take my sleeping child inside; it was cold outside.
By the time I came back out, The Boy was in handcuffs – not because the
alarm went off but because they had checked their computer and found
the arrest warrant from the night before. He was taken to jail where he
spent the night. All hail the American system.
We went back for a final protective order hearing about three weeks
later, and I was granted the protective order. The Boy and I met in his
friend’s house before the court day. Let’s call his friend, Tunde. We
met at Tunde’s house. The boy was asking for forgiveness, said he wanted
his family back, asked me why I called the police over a “small family
matter,” and why I took him seriously when he said he did not want the
marriage, that it was said in anger. But it did not matter what he
wanted or how serious he was. I was done. I had had enough. There was
nothing worth fighting for. If I had fought for the marriage and we had
ended up staying married, it would have still been a loss to me. A
hundred percent of nothing was still nothing.
So, I did not believe a word he said when he apologized. Unlike
before, I was not believing him blindly. I asked him about the juju and
he said it was his, that he brought it for his “political protection and
breakthrough.” Reason number 74733456920 why Nigeria is the way it is.
This is what the politicians are made of. He also said the juju was
from God, that it was our culture. I asked him what God he was serving,
and he said we had the same God. Impossible. And yes, that entire
conversation was recorded too.
Let me back up here and tell you a bit about Tunde. I met Tunde
through The Boy when we started dating. They were very close, and as far
as I could tell, Tunde was a good friend. In 2017, before The Boy
traveled to Nigeria, Tunde first traveled to Nigeria. I told The Boy to
tell Tunde to bring me back some Knorr cubes. The Witch requested that
he bring her back some pain medication from the pharmacy. Tunde came
back to Maryland with neither the Knorr cubes nor the medication. The
Boy called while on his way back from Tunde’s house to give me the news.
I was disappointed because Knorr cubes are a lot cheaper in Nigeria,
but it was no big deal. When I told The Witch, she was so angry. She was
cursing Tunde, saying things will not be well for his family. Ah, ah.
On top of Knorr cubes? I did not understand the anger, especially
considering that she was not the one who would have to pay for it at the
African store. I tried to calm her down, but she would not be tamed.
When The Boy returned, she put on an award-winning performance that
had my jaw on the floor. As soon as she heard him walk in, she burst out
crying. He went to her, they were speaking Yoruba and I wasn’t paying
attention. I assumed she was venting to him the way she did to me. I
figured he’d tell her to calm her ass down. He came out smiling. He
said, “Tunde tried me.” I asked him what that
meant. He said that while Tunde was in Nigeria, Tunde went to the
babalawo/dibia/voodoo man and that Tunde took his (The Boy’s) name
there, but that Tunde failed in his conquest. Apparently, Tunde was
jealous of him. And yes, The Witch saw it all in a vision.
Sweet Potatoes, I was stunned. I tried my best to reason with The
Boy, but it was null and void. Why would Tunde “try” you? How come she
did not mention this vision before she requested the medication? What is
it you have that everyone wants to take from you? Excuse my pride,
Sweet Potatoes, but as far as my eyes could see, I and Ada Verastic were
the only things he had that were worth taking, and Tunde was definitely
not trying to take us.
And that was how he began to withdraw from Tunde. Still, on the day
that he got arrested, Tunde was the one he called to complain that I got
him arrested for “no reason.” And The Witch was in Chicago when the
arrest happened. Tunde was also the person that she kept calling to beg
me to release her son. Now, would a mother call someone who allegedly
wants to destroy her son? Tunde was also the one who opened his home up
for us to meet. That was where The Boy admitted that the juju was his,
and that was where I recorded the conversation. Eventually, he
completely cut Tunde off. Tunde, being a good friend, tried to beg me
to forgive The Boy, even if he did not deserve to be forgiven. But one
day, Tunde called and said that I should do what I thought was right,
that he did not want to mislead me to be with The Boy, that The Boy was
not okay.
Let me fast forward to the criminal trial. Because I called the
police for assault, the court subpoenaed me to appear in court as the
State’s witness. The trial was in March 2018. I showed up late in court
(long story), and The Boy was clearly not expecting me to show up. In
his panic, he asked for the case to be rescheduled. When a reason was
demanded, he said it was because his witness had not shown up. He had to
give someone’s name, so he gave John’s name. John was the friend who
was present when he pushed me.
The case was rescheduled for May 2018. This time, John was present,
and so were my aunt and my friends (Funmie, Ibukun, Lisa, Jemela, and
Tasha). In the March trial, Ibukun was the only one who could make it.
The State’s Attorney offered The Boy a deal, said that if he attended an
anger management program for abusers, it won’t show up on his record.
It was offered several times. The Boy turned it down as many times. John
pleaded with the boy, but he refused to listen. Eventually, the case
was called, and The Boy went on the stand and told all kinds of lies. He
said that I threatened to harm him and his mother and that he was
sleeping when he heard me telling my friend that I wanted to destroy my
husband’s life. John was called to the stand and he said what he saw.
In the end, the Judge said he relied heavily on John’s testimony. The
Boy was found guilty of second-degree assault. That anger management
class he turned down was now a requirement for him to do AND it would
now be on his record. It’s all public information. Google for yourself
and see.
Sometime after our separation, I found out why The Boy was acting
weird when he came back from Nigeria. It was because his mother had told
him to go to her personal juju/voodoo man, and the juju man had told
him that I was fighting him spiritually, that I was the cause of his
setbacks, that I was controlling him with juju, that I was putting
something in his efo, that I was using his star and destiny (which
explained why all these people knew me. By the way, you people – Sweet
Potatoes – were part of my problem. How did you know me, if I was not
using his star to shine?
Other things I was accused of: I thought I was better than them
(honey, but I was/still am). I refused to eat Titus fish (but it’s
stinky, and I don’t like fish). My doctor parents are intimidating (is
it my fault that my parents chose education while his mother chose to be
the community pussy of Ogere? No). I was not cooking (I suppose it
was a ghost cooking all the food they were eating).
There is so much I have left out of this story. Some issues deserve a
post of their own – like our money issues. The more he made, the more
he spent, and the broker he became. There’s also the part about the
weird things I did and felt while he was in Nigeria.
But I want to say something about The Boy and The Witch. Things did
not work out the way I planned, but I did love The Boy. I even loved The
Witch. I knew she was fake, like the way she always knelt to greet my
friends (what kind of elderly Yoruba woman kneels to greet “children?”),
but I was blindsided by the juju, and while I did not think she loved
me like her child, I certainly did not expect the backstabbing, did not
expect her to push the boy into his doom.
If you are tempted to feel pity for me, please don’t. The story is
sad, yes. but it is how my marriage ended, not how I ended. I’m still
here, only stronger now. I am unable to fully elaborate in this one
post all the emotions I have endured in the past two years. But I have
found out for sure that God is on my side, that He loves me ferociously,
and that I am divinely protected because His hedge of protection
surrounds me. I was fighting a war that I did not even know I was in.
Now, let me answer your question: where are things now?
The Boy’s father and brothers: They are doing GREAT!
Our relationship has become better, stronger, and more intimate since
The Boy exited our lives. They know Ada Verastic, and she knows them. We
spend lots of quality time together. In the past two years, two
brothers have gotten married, and one has become a father. Ada Verastic
and I were present for all of it. I was the MC at the baby shower and
Ada Verastic was a flower girl at one wedding. Throughout this entire
ordeal, they have stood by me and loved me and supported me. Most
importantly, they have loved my child. Tunde: Tunde and his family have moved out of
Maryland and relocated to another State. I have not spoken to them in a
while, but I believe they are all well. Ade: I called Ade after the separation to ask him
the real reason he kicked The Boy out of their business. He said that
The Boy was owing him thousands of dollars, that he was not
participating in the business, and that when they went to Nigeria
together, he found out that The Boy was diabolical and he was not
comfortable with being in business with such a person. You see how your
girl was carrying last on all fronts? Anyway, remember The Witch said
his wife couldn’t have a baby. I’m very pleased to announce that Ade and
his wife are parents now.
The Boy nko? Since the separation, he lost his job for almost a year.
His car was repossessed. His license was suspended. He owes me almost
twenty thousand dollars in child support. Creditors are calling me and
his family, trying to find him to pay them back. Ndi Creditors, leave me
alone, please. You see my armpit? There’s no hair in it. Vera is out.
And me? Since the separation, I have moved into my aunt’s house (yes, Aunt Chinelo),
and it has been a gift from God. At first, I moved here because I could
not afford to get a place in the area I liked and still be able to take
care of Ada Verastic on my salary. Now, I can afford a place (shit, I
can afford two places), but living with family has been priceless. I’ll
still move though. I have gone back to sleeping at night. My peace has
been restored. I swear I have aged backwards. I found out through a
practical experiment that my vagina isn’t broken, and that’s where I’ll
leave that! *WINK* And the icing on the cake, I have almost tripled my
income. By the way, I have also solely taken care of my child and ALL of
her needs since the separation (by God’s grace and provision).
In February of 2019, I filed for divorce. My lawyer was a nice, older
white man, but he wasn’t aggressive enough, so I had to fire him.
Instead, I hired a young, Igbo chic who had the reputation of being a
shark. She cost me more in one month than the other lawyer cost me in 10
months, but she got it done. My divorce was final in October 2019. I am
free.
There are two things I need you to do for me right now. The first is
to thank God on my behalf. No, really, please do. Can you imagine what
these heathens tried and failed? Can you imagine what would have
happened if God was not looking out for me? Can you imagine how this
story would have gone? Even as I type this paragraph, my mind is being
flooded with details that I have left out. This post is already too
long. You’ll read more stories in shorter post forms in the future.
And the second thing I need you to do is to share this post. On
Facebook. On Twitter. On LinkedIn. On Whats App. On Skype. Everywhere.
Loud it. I am not ashamed of this. In fact, I have become cocky since
this incident because I discovered that God is on my side.
I remember reading one of those inspirational IG posts. It said, “When you’re in a dark place, you tend to think you’re been buried. Perhaps, you’ve been planted. Bloom.”
Sweet Potatoes, I have been blooming. Over-blooming sef is worrying me
right now. I have grown and stretched so much in the past two years. I
can barely recognize myself.
Sweet Potatoes, thank you again for your love and support. Thank you
for standing by me and waiting for me while I got my life together –
although you people are proof that I have stolen someone’s star. God
bless every one of you.
P.S. My birthday is on Tuesday, January 14th. If you
see the new pictures I took ehn! In fact, I’m salivating for my own
self. You just wait and see. All of you will propose marriage
immediately. Every last one of you. Man, woman, and dog, you’ll all want
me. Not to worry, there’s enough of me to go around.
Written by Vera Ezimora based her true life events, To know more abot her, click here
TELL YOUR FRIENDS
How My Marriage Ended – The Full Story, By Verastic
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Rating: 5
How My Marriage Ended – The Full Story, By Verastic
Sweet Potatoes, this is how my marriage ended. But before you start
reading this post, I want to appeal to you to do me a favor: SHARE THIS POST.
On Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Whats App, Skype, Email,
Every-Damn-Where because everyone should know. There are share buttons
at the bottom of the post for your convenience. This is a long post. I
tried to make it as short as possible, but it’s still long because story
full ground. Read on. Then share. Thank you.
I will write this story keeping in mind that for some people, this
may be the first thing they are reading from me, so they may not be
familiar with the people I’m talking about. Let’s start from the
beginning.
I will refer to the person I used to be married to as The Boy. The
Boy and I got married in 2011, and we had a baby (Ada Verastic) in 2015.
He’s Yoruba. I’m Igbo. Maryland, USA is the setting for all this
nonsense.
In 2016, right before Ada Verastic turned one, The Boy’s mother moved
from Nigeria to America to live with us. It was not an idea I was
thrilled about, but I came around to being okay with it. I was planning
on leaving my job after having the baby (to work more on the blog), and
The Boy said his mom would be a good addition, that she could care for
the baby while I worked. I told The Boy that she could stay as long as I
was not expected to change my life because she was now living with me.
He agreed, said he was nervous too about her coming.
Side note: The Boy was not raised by his mother. She
and The Boy’s father had him while they were very young. The Boy’s
father never married her. He moved on, married a woman, and had three
sons with her. The Boy’s mother moved on, but apparently, only
physically. She had more children, each one with a different man. None
of these men married her either. When The Boy was 7 months old, she
abandoned him with his paternal grandfather and continued bearing
children for any man who was brave enough to enter. So, the boy was in
his twenties when his father introduced him to his mother.
She moved into my home in October 2016. Less than two weeks later,
The Boy lost his job. According to him, he did nothing. They just fired
him. I believed him because he was my husband, and he had not given me
any reason to doubt him. Now, remember, I did not have a regular job at
this time. All I had was income from my blog, which was inconsistent.
Sometimes, it was a lot, and other times, it was barely there.
For six months, the boy did not have a job. We survived on the
chicken change from unemployment benefits and from my savings. I was
(still am) excellent at saving, so although I was not officially
working, I had money. Every month, I’d transfer the needed funds for the
month’s bills.
In April of 2017, I went back to work. It was a position that fell
into my lap. I did not apply for the job, and I was hired based on my
writing skills on the blog. The position was a three-month contract
position for a Communications Specialist. The contract was extended
once, but I eventually lost the job in August of the same year. The Boy
also started a new six-figure job in April, after I started mine.
Before he got the job, however, The Boy’s mother – shall we call her
The Witch? – told him that she saw a vision from God, that God told her
that his father was responsible for his job loss, that his father was
mad that he brought her to America. Several times, The Boy and I had
arguments over this issue. The so-called vision made no sense to me. I
asked him, why would your father “attack” you now? He’s the one who sent
money to your grandpa to take care of you. And he’s the one who filed
for you to be in America. And you have been here all these years. Why
would he do this now? And if truly he attacked you, how come you got
another job? Has the attack worn off? I was told that I did not
understand, that I grew up rich, that I was asking too many questions
and speaking too much English, that I did not understand how Yoruba
people act.
During his six-month unemployment period, his business partner called
a meeting in which he basically kicked The Boy out of the company. The
Boy told me that it was because his business partner (let’s call him
Ade) had discovered that The Boy was building a house in Nigeria, in his
mother’s village, Ogere, and the business partner was jealous. It made
no sense to me, especially because this business partner was also his
closest friend who had otherwise been extremely supportive. Again, I
believed him, and against my better judgment, I silenced all the voices
in my head that were speaking too much English.
About two years prior to this, Ade and his wife had unfortunately
suffered a miscarriage. So, when Ade kicked The Boy out of the business,
The Witch said she saw a vision from God, that God had told her that
Ade’s wife would never conceive, that there was something in her belly
that tied her womb up. The Boy rejoiced because he believed that this
was a punishment from God to Ade. I prayed for Ade and his wife. I did
not like him anymore because he was allegedly jealous of my husband for
the house he was building in the village, but as a mom, I prayed that
Ade and his wife would have children.
Side note about this house in the village: I saw it
when I went to Nigeria in 2016. It was located in the middle of a swamp.
There was no road to get to it, and we had to drive on heavy mud to get
to it. It was so bad that when we got there, I refused to come down
from the car in my shoes. I did not want to ruin my shoes in that mud.
Someone else had to take their shoes off for me to wear. Sure, you may
call me an Ajebota. I have learned to not be sorry for being an Ajebota.
Yes, I am. The house was a complete mess. It was not going according to
the blueprint, but I did not care too much because (1) It was located in the village of Ogere, and I knew I’d never live there, and (2) I was never in support of building this house. I wanted a house where I lived in Maryland.
While The Witch lived with me, she always saw visions for me. Like
when she said I should not wear anything red for a certain amount of
time. Or when she said I should ALWAYS obey my husband, no matter what.
Or when even before she lived with me, she said she knew the gender of
the baby we were having. We did not know Ada Verastic’s gender until she
was born, but The Witch said she knew it. When asked what the gender
was then, she refused to say. After she was told it was a girl, she said
she knew it, that God showed her the color pink in a dream. The day she
moved into my home, she looked out the window of her bedroom and said
that she recognized the tree, that God had shown her that tree in a
vision.
The Boy and The Witch got into serious arguments all the time, and I
was left being a verbal referee. I figured they were clashing because
she did not raise The Boy, and this was them – two adults – getting to
know each other. Several times, The Boy threatened to bundle her back to
Nigeria. I begged him not to. Once, I even got on my knees to beg. You cannot throw your mother out, I begged. Be patient with her, I pleaded. Be mindful of how you speak to her, I warned.
Things were changing between The Boy and I. Our sex life was almost
non-existent. At first, it happened because of hormones from being
pregnant and bearing a child, but soon, it became more. No matter what
The Boy did, I could not get my body to react. My doctor said it was
childbirth, that I should give it some time. I had absolutely no desire
to have sex with The Boy.
It did not matter how he touched me or where he stuck his tongue, I
was as dry as a desert. Lubricants became our norm. Still, the sex was
passionless, uncomfortable, and sometimes painful. He complained,
understandably. I also stopped initiating sex. How could I initiate that
which I did not want? To appease him, I’d try to trick myself into
being aroused. I’d watch porn to get me wet, then I’d run off to him to
quickly “get it done” before the feeling disappeared, but there was no
tricking my mind. My mind knew what I was doing, and it always snitched
to my body, so by the time I’d get to The Boy, I was already back to
square one: fucking dry. And then I’d feel guilty for watching porn. It
was a continuous cycle.
In my house, The Witch saw many more visions. She told him that he’d
be a king. Of where? I don’t know. He believed it so much that he said
he’d be the biggest king in Nigeria, that he’d be so big that when
presidents of other nations came into Nigeria, they’d come to pay him a
visit before visiting the president of Nigeria, and that his throne
would have a branch office in Aso Rock. Together, they’d obsessively
watch videos of the Ooni of Ife, scrutinizing his looks. The Boy would
tell his mother what kind of outfit he wanted at his own coronation, and
she’d hail him, call him Kabiyesi. On his birthday in October 2017, I
told the boy to kneel so I could pray for him. He refused to kneel, said
that kings don’t kneel for people. I cannot make this up.
Long ago, I was in nursing school. I hated nursing school, but I
quite enjoyed the clinical part of Psychiatric Nursing. We got to sit
with the patients, listen to their delusional stories, and write about
them (nurse’s notes). That was my favorite part. When that patient told
me that she saw and spoke to the devil, I understood that she had a
mental illness. Or I hoped it was indeed a mental illness anyway. But
sitting in my own home, listening to The Boy and The Witch display their
active delusions of grandeur, it was not funny or entertaining anymore.
I was worried. Worried for my life. Worried for my daughter. Worried
for my future.
The Boy told me to be excited that he’d soon go to Nigeria to claim
his chieftaincy title (different from the kingship), that I, too, would
be Chief Mrs. His-Last-Name. I was somewhere between amused and
disgusted. First of all, I did not even have his last name. Second of
all, I had never expressed any interest in being Chief Mrs. Anything.
And lastly, I feared for the diabolical implications of a chieftaincy
title. My fears were dismissed because again, I was an Ajebota who did
not know anything. Oh, and he said that I would be respected by my Sweet
Potatoes on IG once they knew I was a Chief Mrs, and I would wear a hat
with a feather in it. Me, Vera? Hat with feather?
In August of 2017, we went for a traditional wedding. When we came
home, we had an argument, and I don’t remember now how the argument
started or what it was even about. He was really angry. I insisted that
we talk about it, resolve it immediately, but he did not want to. I
wouldn’t let him leave the room, so he hit me. Of course, I moved then. I
screamed when he hit me – from the shock, not the pain. I barely slept
that night. I cried, slept, woke up to cry some more, slept again,
repeatedly. In the morning, I contemplated calling the police, but I did
not. That day, we had to go to a wedding (the white wedding of the
traditional wedding we attended the night before). It was the last thing
I wanted to do, but I had promised a friend that I would be there for
this wedding. So, I went. My mind was not with my body that night. I’ll
dedicate a separate post to this wedding. It will be titled, A Tale of Two Weddings (And One Dress).
The Boy never apologized for hitting me. But weeks later, when I
“recovered,” I brought the conversation up. I told the boy that if he
ever put his hands on me again, he would get a different response from
me. He said he hoped I never “made” him do it again.
In November 2017, the boy traveled to Nigeria. It was a “business”
trip. Against my advice, he had built an app. He got a credit card,
hired developers in India and max’d the card out. He said the trip was
successful, that “people” knew his name now. I did not and still do not
know who these people are.
When he returned from Nigeria, I cooked some vegetable (efo) soup and
some fried rice. I assumed he’d eat the efo because he never picked
rice over efo. To my surprise, he chose to eat the rice. I thought
nothing of it. I assumed that he was possibly fed up with eating efo in
Nigeria. But he was acting really strangely. He slept with the lights
on. He wore a long white gown that I had never seen to sleep. He was on
edge, irritable. We had an argument and he finally told me why he was
mad at me. It was because when I came to the airport with Ada Verastic
and The Witch to pick him up, he said I let The Witch push the cart with
his luggage on it. I asked him, who owns the cart and who owns the
mother? If you did not like her pushing the cart, why didn’t you stop
her?
Let me rewind back a little bit. While The Witch lived with me, the
only job I asked her to do was to take care of my baby. I never asked
her to do dishes or cook, or do laundry, or clean anything. She chose to
do those things herself, except the laundry. I did everyone’s laundry.
Apart from her puff puff, I never ate anything The Witch cooked in my
house because she could not cook worth a damn.
Before I went to her house in Nigeria, the boy forewarned me, told me
that his mother could not cook, but that I should manage the food. He
has told a lot of lies, but this was not one of them. I nearly threw up
in my mouth. My mom begged me to pretend to eat. I could not. I told
them I was full, that I had just eaten. It was a lie. I was starving. In
my home, I told The Witch that if she ever did not feel like eating
what I had in the fridge, she was welcome to cook anything. And she did.
She cooked egusi with meatballs seasoned for pasta. The stench of the
flavors mixed together was nauseating. She ate yam with peanut butter. I
could not care less. I only had one request: that the food not be fed
to my child. Her son, however, was free to eat whatever she cooked. He
didn’t.
She made side comments about The Boy only wanting to eat my food. She
questioned where I bought my clothes, said she wanted my type of
clothes. She asked what lotion I used, that my skin was too fresh. She
asked why I had so many clothes, shoes, and jewelry, and was I selling
them. Once, I pricked my finger on a piece of dry fish and it began to
bleed. She said, “Ah, Mommy Ada, see as your blood is smooth.” Funmie’s mom said I should have said, “Yes, it’s smooth, but it’s very bitter. In fact, you cannot taste it.” Funmie’s mom is savage.
Too many times, she expressed her awe of me. She could not believe I
ate corn flakes as a child. Or that I was born in Russia. Or that I had
never eaten certain mixtures, like meat and garri. Or that I had never
bought fish crumbs on the roadside in Nigeria. Or that I disliked the
smell of fish. Or that I did not eat the organs of meat (like the
kidneys, heart, eyes, etc). Or that my mom had a food menu for each
week. Or that my mother worked and had a car. Or that I refused to tie
iro and bubu (wrapper and blouse). She even made a comment about how my
daughter only loved her mother (me). Before nko?
After The Boy came back from Nigeria and we had that argument, I
refused to give in. I’m not a fighter. I tend to always end the fight
first because chaos is uncomfortable. This time, however, I refused to
yield. One day, another argument ensued and I asked him if he was still
interested in this marriage. He shouted no. I said, say no more. I went
into our bedroom, called my aunt, and said, “Aunty, my marriage is over.”
And because my mother did not raise a fool, I immediately packed up
all the documents that meant anything to me (passports, social security
cards, birth certificate, documents for my car, etc), and I took them
out of the house.
He found out about a week later. He confronted me in the living room.
I confirmed that I took them. He asked what was supposed to happen to
us now. I told him that I had given him everything I had to give him,
and that I was empty now. I told him I had worked for the marriage as
much as I could, and that now, I was ready to meet him wherever he
wanted to go. The Witch was in her room, and her door was open, so I
knew she could hear us. I told him that love was the only reason why we
were where we were. If I did not love him, The Witch would not be under
my roof. At most, I told him, she would be my mother’s help – if my
mother would have her. I ended my speech by telling him that he and his
mother were not on my level. Sometime in the future, he tried to get me
to recant what I said about them not being on my level, but I refused.
He patronized me, said I must have said it in anger. Nope. I told him I
said what I meant and I meant what I said, and I was standing by my
words.
By the way, before all this, I suspected that he and his mother were
discussing me, so I started recording their conversations. I don’t speak
Yoruba, so they spoke freely in front of me. I got so much dirt on
them. I’d send the conversations to my Yoruba friends, and they would
scream and interpret.
In one conversation, for example, The Witch told The Boy that I had
gotten too big for them, that they needed to clip my wings. In another
conversation, The Boy told his mother that he would kick me out of the
house if I did not leave, and The Witch supported, said yes, that is
what you must do. In another conversation, he spoke very disrespectfully
about his father, and The Witch said she would deal with The Boy’s
father. The boy agreed. I recorded them for weeks and did not react. If I
had said something, I’d have lost access to my data and receipts, so I
played their game, pretended not to know what they were saying, kept
them talking.
This story is a lot, so I’m jumping all around and writing things as I
remember them. That day The Boy hit me, The Witch did nothing. She said
nothing. The weeks The Boy and I were not talking, she said nothing and
did nothing. One day (after I took the documents), she called a meeting
to ask what the problem was. That entire conversation was recorded. I
played along with them, pretended to be having a meeting with them. The
Boy screamed, NO WOMAN WILL CONTROL ME IN MY HOUSE! Then The Witch asked
why I took the documents, if we were fighting. I responded, No, this is
war. But I did not tell them what I knew.
Thanks to the recordings, I knew she was traveling to Chicago to
visit The Boy’s aunt. They did not tell me and did not intend to tell
me. But that day, on December 19th, 2017 when the boy returned from work
and was ready to go drop her off at the airport, I asked her where she
was going. She said she was going “somewhere” for Christmas. I asked, “Won’t you take the rest of your things?”
I advised her to take her things because that day was going to be her
last time in my house. My blood was boiling, Sweet Potatoes. I smacked
my palm on the table and dared her to try me. I would finish her if she
returned. That day was the last day I set my eyes on her.
The Boy asked if I was asking his mother to leave. Iya mi? He asked.
Yes. He took her to the airport. On his way back, he stopped at a
friend’s house. Let’s call him John. Meanwhile, John had called him
several times in the past few weeks, trying to talk to him about our
situation. In one of the recordings I had, The Witch is telling him not
to go to John’s house. On this day, however, he goes to John’s house and
apologizes for not calling him back, says that he was sick. Little did
he know that John was one of my interpreters, that John already knew he
was lying, that John had already heard The Witch telling him not to
come. The Witch had even reigned curses on John and his family.
While he was at John’s house, I got a sudden urge to search The
Witch’s room. She had two pieces of luggage, both locked. I went into
the laundry room and brought the hammer. I broke the lock of the first
luggage. In it, I found his degrees. He had hidden them there after I
took my own documents. I also found a worn, dirty underwear that
belonged to The Witch. I did not understand why she’d save that there,
but I zipped the luggage back up and returned the hammer. I walked out
of the laundry room and felt in my spirit that I needed to open the
second luggage. So I went back, got the hammer, and broke the second
lock. It was full of clothes. I almost zipped the bag and walked away,
but I decided to move some clothes around. And that was when my heart
almost left my body.
Juju [Voodoo]. A calabash with feathers on it. Two bottles of black
liquid. Two bowls with unknown substances in them. I did not open to
see. I was freaking out!! I had never seen juju when it was not on a TV
screen. Yet, here it was, in my home, in 2017. I tried to take a picture
on my phone. My hands were so shaky; I took a video instead. In it, I’m
screaming blood of Jesus! I eventually took a picture. I called The
Boy’s father. He screamed on the phone, said “This woman wants to kill
my son!”
His father said he was on the way. Meanwhile, the boy came home with
John in tow. When he came home, the first thing he did was go into his
mother’s room to check on her stuff. Then he came back to the living
room where John tried unsuccessfully to talk to us both. I was livid. I
was shaking. Angry. Confused. I called The Boy a fool, amongst other
things. He looked shocked, I had never called him names. In all the
years we were married, I never called the boys names, never insulted
him, even when he said unkind things to me, but today, the gloves were
off, and I realized that it was impossible to speak to him any other
way.
When the boy heard me talking to his father on the phone, he said he
was leaving, that he was not going to be told what to do in his own
house. I called his father back, told him The Boy was leaving. He said I
should show him the luggage then. I ran into The Witch’s bedroom and
dragged the luggage out. I opened it in front of The Boy and John, told
him to see what his mother was doing. What I expected was for the boy to
jump back in shock, scream Blood of Jesus like me. Instead, the boy
defended it, tried to convince John that it was not juju. By the way,
John is a full-blown Yoruba man, so of course, he knew it was juju.
Sweet Potatoes, the shock of The Boy defending the juju was more than
the original shock of finding it.
John refused to look at the juju, lest he be blind. In his anger and
humiliation, The Boy pushed me hard. This time, I was ready for him. I
called 911, told them I wanted to report an assault. The boy dragged his
mother’s luggage – the one with the juju – and fled. Police came and
took my statement. Then they put out a warrant for his arrest. His
father came too, looking tired and hurt. This was his son.
The next day, I called the security company and changed the code on
the alarm before heading out to court to file a protective order. I knew
nothing of what this order was. The police had asked me the night
before if I was going to file one and I said yes. They told me where to
file, and I headed there the next day. I was with Ada Verastic; she was
just two months over two years old. She was bored and restless in court,
and I had to stand before the judge to explain why I was asking for
this protective order. It was granted temporarily. When I was walking
out of court, the security company called me, “Ma’am, there’s a disturbance at your house. Your alarm is going off. Should we dispatch police?” They asked. And I said, “Yes. I’m not home. There’s an intruder.”
Before I got home, two policemen were there already with the boy
standing outside. Ada Verastic had fallen asleep in the car. I told the
police that I had to take my sleeping child inside; it was cold outside.
By the time I came back out, The Boy was in handcuffs – not because the
alarm went off but because they had checked their computer and found
the arrest warrant from the night before. He was taken to jail where he
spent the night. All hail the American system.
We went back for a final protective order hearing about three weeks
later, and I was granted the protective order. The Boy and I met in his
friend’s house before the court day. Let’s call his friend, Tunde. We
met at Tunde’s house. The boy was asking for forgiveness, said he wanted
his family back, asked me why I called the police over a “small family
matter,” and why I took him seriously when he said he did not want the
marriage, that it was said in anger. But it did not matter what he
wanted or how serious he was. I was done. I had had enough. There was
nothing worth fighting for. If I had fought for the marriage and we had
ended up staying married, it would have still been a loss to me. A
hundred percent of nothing was still nothing.
So, I did not believe a word he said when he apologized. Unlike
before, I was not believing him blindly. I asked him about the juju and
he said it was his, that he brought it for his “political protection and
breakthrough.” Reason number 74733456920 why Nigeria is the way it is.
This is what the politicians are made of. He also said the juju was
from God, that it was our culture. I asked him what God he was serving,
and he said we had the same God. Impossible. And yes, that entire
conversation was recorded too.
Let me back up here and tell you a bit about Tunde. I met Tunde
through The Boy when we started dating. They were very close, and as far
as I could tell, Tunde was a good friend. In 2017, before The Boy
traveled to Nigeria, Tunde first traveled to Nigeria. I told The Boy to
tell Tunde to bring me back some Knorr cubes. The Witch requested that
he bring her back some pain medication from the pharmacy. Tunde came
back to Maryland with neither the Knorr cubes nor the medication. The
Boy called while on his way back from Tunde’s house to give me the news.
I was disappointed because Knorr cubes are a lot cheaper in Nigeria,
but it was no big deal. When I told The Witch, she was so angry. She was
cursing Tunde, saying things will not be well for his family. Ah, ah.
On top of Knorr cubes? I did not understand the anger, especially
considering that she was not the one who would have to pay for it at the
African store. I tried to calm her down, but she would not be tamed.
When The Boy returned, she put on an award-winning performance that
had my jaw on the floor. As soon as she heard him walk in, she burst out
crying. He went to her, they were speaking Yoruba and I wasn’t paying
attention. I assumed she was venting to him the way she did to me. I
figured he’d tell her to calm her ass down. He came out smiling. He
said, “Tunde tried me.” I asked him what that
meant. He said that while Tunde was in Nigeria, Tunde went to the
babalawo/dibia/voodoo man and that Tunde took his (The Boy’s) name
there, but that Tunde failed in his conquest. Apparently, Tunde was
jealous of him. And yes, The Witch saw it all in a vision.
Sweet Potatoes, I was stunned. I tried my best to reason with The
Boy, but it was null and void. Why would Tunde “try” you? How come she
did not mention this vision before she requested the medication? What is
it you have that everyone wants to take from you? Excuse my pride,
Sweet Potatoes, but as far as my eyes could see, I and Ada Verastic were
the only things he had that were worth taking, and Tunde was definitely
not trying to take us.
And that was how he began to withdraw from Tunde. Still, on the day
that he got arrested, Tunde was the one he called to complain that I got
him arrested for “no reason.” And The Witch was in Chicago when the
arrest happened. Tunde was also the person that she kept calling to beg
me to release her son. Now, would a mother call someone who allegedly
wants to destroy her son? Tunde was also the one who opened his home up
for us to meet. That was where The Boy admitted that the juju was his,
and that was where I recorded the conversation. Eventually, he
completely cut Tunde off. Tunde, being a good friend, tried to beg me
to forgive The Boy, even if he did not deserve to be forgiven. But one
day, Tunde called and said that I should do what I thought was right,
that he did not want to mislead me to be with The Boy, that The Boy was
not okay.
Let me fast forward to the criminal trial. Because I called the
police for assault, the court subpoenaed me to appear in court as the
State’s witness. The trial was in March 2018. I showed up late in court
(long story), and The Boy was clearly not expecting me to show up. In
his panic, he asked for the case to be rescheduled. When a reason was
demanded, he said it was because his witness had not shown up. He had to
give someone’s name, so he gave John’s name. John was the friend who
was present when he pushed me.
The case was rescheduled for May 2018. This time, John was present,
and so were my aunt and my friends (Funmie, Ibukun, Lisa, Jemela, and
Tasha). In the March trial, Ibukun was the only one who could make it.
The State’s Attorney offered The Boy a deal, said that if he attended an
anger management program for abusers, it won’t show up on his record.
It was offered several times. The Boy turned it down as many times. John
pleaded with the boy, but he refused to listen. Eventually, the case
was called, and The Boy went on the stand and told all kinds of lies. He
said that I threatened to harm him and his mother and that he was
sleeping when he heard me telling my friend that I wanted to destroy my
husband’s life. John was called to the stand and he said what he saw.
In the end, the Judge said he relied heavily on John’s testimony. The
Boy was found guilty of second-degree assault. That anger management
class he turned down was now a requirement for him to do AND it would
now be on his record. It’s all public information. Google for yourself
and see.
Sometime after our separation, I found out why The Boy was acting
weird when he came back from Nigeria. It was because his mother had told
him to go to her personal juju/voodoo man, and the juju man had told
him that I was fighting him spiritually, that I was the cause of his
setbacks, that I was controlling him with juju, that I was putting
something in his efo, that I was using his star and destiny (which
explained why all these people knew me. By the way, you people – Sweet
Potatoes – were part of my problem. How did you know me, if I was not
using his star to shine?
Other things I was accused of: I thought I was better than them
(honey, but I was/still am). I refused to eat Titus fish (but it’s
stinky, and I don’t like fish). My doctor parents are intimidating (is
it my fault that my parents chose education while his mother chose to be
the community pussy of Ogere? No). I was not cooking (I suppose it
was a ghost cooking all the food they were eating).
There is so much I have left out of this story. Some issues deserve a
post of their own – like our money issues. The more he made, the more
he spent, and the broker he became. There’s also the part about the
weird things I did and felt while he was in Nigeria.
But I want to say something about The Boy and The Witch. Things did
not work out the way I planned, but I did love The Boy. I even loved The
Witch. I knew she was fake, like the way she always knelt to greet my
friends (what kind of elderly Yoruba woman kneels to greet “children?”),
but I was blindsided by the juju, and while I did not think she loved
me like her child, I certainly did not expect the backstabbing, did not
expect her to push the boy into his doom.
If you are tempted to feel pity for me, please don’t. The story is
sad, yes. but it is how my marriage ended, not how I ended. I’m still
here, only stronger now. I am unable to fully elaborate in this one
post all the emotions I have endured in the past two years. But I have
found out for sure that God is on my side, that He loves me ferociously,
and that I am divinely protected because His hedge of protection
surrounds me. I was fighting a war that I did not even know I was in.
Now, let me answer your question: where are things now?
The Boy’s father and brothers: They are doing GREAT!
Our relationship has become better, stronger, and more intimate since
The Boy exited our lives. They know Ada Verastic, and she knows them. We
spend lots of quality time together. In the past two years, two
brothers have gotten married, and one has become a father. Ada Verastic
and I were present for all of it. I was the MC at the baby shower and
Ada Verastic was a flower girl at one wedding. Throughout this entire
ordeal, they have stood by me and loved me and supported me. Most
importantly, they have loved my child. Tunde: Tunde and his family have moved out of
Maryland and relocated to another State. I have not spoken to them in a
while, but I believe they are all well. Ade: I called Ade after the separation to ask him
the real reason he kicked The Boy out of their business. He said that
The Boy was owing him thousands of dollars, that he was not
participating in the business, and that when they went to Nigeria
together, he found out that The Boy was diabolical and he was not
comfortable with being in business with such a person. You see how your
girl was carrying last on all fronts? Anyway, remember The Witch said
his wife couldn’t have a baby. I’m very pleased to announce that Ade and
his wife are parents now.
The Boy nko? Since the separation, he lost his job for almost a year.
His car was repossessed. His license was suspended. He owes me almost
twenty thousand dollars in child support. Creditors are calling me and
his family, trying to find him to pay them back. Ndi Creditors, leave me
alone, please. You see my armpit? There’s no hair in it. Vera is out.
And me? Since the separation, I have moved into my aunt’s house (yes, Aunt Chinelo),
and it has been a gift from God. At first, I moved here because I could
not afford to get a place in the area I liked and still be able to take
care of Ada Verastic on my salary. Now, I can afford a place (shit, I
can afford two places), but living with family has been priceless. I’ll
still move though. I have gone back to sleeping at night. My peace has
been restored. I swear I have aged backwards. I found out through a
practical experiment that my vagina isn’t broken, and that’s where I’ll
leave that! *WINK* And the icing on the cake, I have almost tripled my
income. By the way, I have also solely taken care of my child and ALL of
her needs since the separation (by God’s grace and provision).
In February of 2019, I filed for divorce. My lawyer was a nice, older
white man, but he wasn’t aggressive enough, so I had to fire him.
Instead, I hired a young, Igbo chic who had the reputation of being a
shark. She cost me more in one month than the other lawyer cost me in 10
months, but she got it done. My divorce was final in October 2019. I am
free.
There are two things I need you to do for me right now. The first is
to thank God on my behalf. No, really, please do. Can you imagine what
these heathens tried and failed? Can you imagine what would have
happened if God was not looking out for me? Can you imagine how this
story would have gone? Even as I type this paragraph, my mind is being
flooded with details that I have left out. This post is already too
long. You’ll read more stories in shorter post forms in the future.
And the second thing I need you to do is to share this post. On
Facebook. On Twitter. On LinkedIn. On Whats App. On Skype. Everywhere.
Loud it. I am not ashamed of this. In fact, I have become cocky since
this incident because I discovered that God is on my side.
I remember reading one of those inspirational IG posts. It said, “When you’re in a dark place, you tend to think you’re been buried. Perhaps, you’ve been planted. Bloom.”
Sweet Potatoes, I have been blooming. Over-blooming sef is worrying me
right now. I have grown and stretched so much in the past two years. I
can barely recognize myself.
Sweet Potatoes, thank you again for your love and support. Thank you
for standing by me and waiting for me while I got my life together –
although you people are proof that I have stolen someone’s star. God
bless every one of you.
P.S. My birthday is on Tuesday, January 14th. If you
see the new pictures I took ehn! In fact, I’m salivating for my own
self. You just wait and see. All of you will propose marriage
immediately. Every last one of you. Man, woman, and dog, you’ll all want
me. Not to worry, there’s enough of me to go around.
Written by Vera Ezimora based her true life events, To know more abot her, click here
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